Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over
Luke Hemmings x reader
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The rain in London wasn't a gentle mist; it was a heavy, relentless curtain that blurred the streetlights outside the window of Luke’s apartment. Inside, the atmosphere was just as oppressive.
The suitcases were already packed. They sat by the door like silent sentinels, marking the end of a three-year timeline that neither of you was ready to erase.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head bowed, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, racking sobs that leave you physically exhausted. The glow of your phone sat face-down on the nightstand, but the images were burned into your retinas—thousands of comments, threads dedicated to picking apart your appearance, your past, your very right to exist next to him. It had started as a trickle and turned into a flood that was finally drowning you.
Luke moved across the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn't say anything at first. He simply sat behind you, wrapping his long arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.
As you leaned back, your tears fell hard on his shoulder, soaking into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
"I can’t do it anymore, Luke," you choked out, the words feeling like shards of glass in your throat. "I’m not strong enough to be hated by the people who love you. It’s changing me. I’m becoming someone I don't recognize just to survive the day."
Luke buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip tightening. He smelled like expensive shampoo and the familiar, comforting scent of home. "They don't know you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "They only see a version of us they’ve invented. They don't see this. They don't see how you make me feel like a person instead of a product."
"It doesn't matter," you sobbed, turning in his arms to face him. Your eyes were red and swollen, your face pale in the dim lamplight. "Every time we go out, I’m waiting for the camera flash. Every time I post a photo, I’m waiting for the first insult. I’ve spent months looking over my shoulder. I just want to breathe again."
Luke reached up, his large, calloused hands framing your face. He wiped a stray tear with his thumb, his gaze desperate and searching.
"Don't leave," he pleaded, the words barely a breath. "I don't wanna start over."
The raw honesty in his voice stopped your heart. Luke was the golden boy, the frontman who always seemed to have the right melody, the right lyric. But right now, he looked like a boy who was about to lose his entire world.
"How am I supposed to go back to a life where I don't wake up next to you?" he asked, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "How am I supposed to write songs that aren't about you? I’ve spent my whole life looking for a girl like you, and I’ve been waiting for this—for us—for so long. Can't you see I've been waiting for you?"
"Luke, please..."
"I'll delete the apps," he insisted, his voice rising with a frantic kind of hope. "We’ll move. We’ll go somewhere quiet. I’ll quit, I’ll—"
"You can't quit," you interrupted, placing your hand over his heart. It was racing, a frantic staccato against your palm. "Music is your soul. I would never ask you to give that up. But I can't stay in the blast zone anymore. I’m breaking, Luke. I’m already broken."
The silence that followed was heavier than the rain. Luke closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and disappearing into the scruff on his jaw. He knew you were right. He knew that the love you shared was being poisoned by a world that didn't know how to be kind. But the thought of the "Firsts" again—the first date with someone new, the first time telling a stranger his secrets—felt like a death sentence.
"I don't wanna start over," he whispered again, his voice breaking entirely. "I don't want to learn someone else's coffee order. I don't want to find out someone else's favorite movie. I just want it to be you. It was always supposed to be you."
He pulled you into him, his face hidden in your hair, holding you with a strength that suggested if he just squeezed hard enough, the morning would never come. You held him back just as tightly, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
This was your last night. The last night of "us."
For a few more hours, you could pretend the suitcases weren't by the door. You could pretend the internet didn't exist. You stayed like that for a long time, two people clinging to a sinking ship, terrified of the cold water, but knowing that the shore was the only place where you could finally learn how to breathe again.